Steps to the Gallows Read online

  ‘I feel as if I’m at death’s door, Gully, but that won’t stop me doing my share.’ Pulling off his nightshirt, he began to dress himself. ‘I’m coming with you.’

  ‘We certainly need more help. I have people coming for instruction in the shooting gallery this evening. If you could handle them, it would set Peter free. He’s looking after the clients at the moment.’

  ‘What about Paul?’

  ‘He’s on the trail of Abel Fearon.’

  ‘Where will he start?’

  ‘In the obvious place,’ replied Ackford. ‘Fearon was a sailor at one time. There may be old shipmates of his who remember him. If Paul can track some of them down, he might pick up useful information about Fearon’s whereabouts.’

  Paul Skillen took the necessary precautions. Ordinarily, he dressed well and – since he’d befriended Hannah Granville – had taken even more notice of current fashion. His tailored elegance would be quite out of place along the wharves and in the riverside taverns. He’d be viewed with suspicion and shunned as a result. Putting on nondescript attire, he also changed his voice so that his educated vowels gave way to a rougher mode of speech. With a hat obscuring much of his face, he adopted a bold strut and headed for the Thames. In putting on a costume to play a part, he was irresistibly reminded of Hannah Granville and felt her absence keenly. She’d often complimented him on his histrionic skills and told him that he could make a living on the stage if he put his mind to it. Paul, however, was a born thief-catcher who loved the thrill of the chase. In his mind, it was a worthier profession than any other.

  The river was the city’s lifeline and thousands earned their living along its serpentine reaches. In the general pandemonium, languages from all over the world rang out. Wharves were teeming, cargo was loaded or unloaded, carts were trundled to and fro and crews prepared to set sail. Paul’s casual enquiries along the bank were fruitless. Nobody had heard of Abel Fearon and, consequently, had no idea of his whereabouts. When he ventured into the various taverns, he had no success either. He spoke to dozens of men, all to no avail. Undeterred, he pressed on until he eventually came to the Jolly Sailor. His first impression was that jollity was in very short supply among the seafarers there. Those sitting at tables or slouched against the bar seemed more interested in rehearsing their woes than in celebrating a leisure moment with their shipmates. Paul drifted across to a stocky, bearded man with a peg leg. An unlit pipe between his teeth, the sailor sat alone in a corner. He had a solid, reliable air. In response to his greeting, Paul got no more than a nod.

  ‘I’m looking for a friend of mine,’ he began. ‘I always used to find him somewhere like this if he was ashore but there’s no sign of him this time. I’ve tried five or six taverns so far.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ asked the man, watchfully.

  ‘Fearon – Abel Fearon. Have you ever come across him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The man glanced down at his empty tankard and Paul took the hint. He ordered two pints of ale and took a long sip of his own drink before resuming the conversation. He hoped that he’d at last found someone who could help him. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘Abel’s not long out of prison,’ Paul said.

  ‘That’s a pity.’

  ‘Pity?’

  ‘It’s the best place for him.’

  ‘Why d’you say that?’

  ‘If he’s your friend, you should already know. I sailed with him once on the Albatross. Every time we put into port, Fearon got into a fight. When he’d ale inside him, he was like a mad dog.’

  ‘He’s not so bad when you get to know him,’ said Paul, tolerantly.

  ‘I don’t want to get to know him.’

  ‘Newgate may have calmed him down. When I went there this morning, they told me they’d let him out. I thought he’d head for one of his old haunts.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning,’ said the man, removing his pipe so that he could gulp down some ale. ‘If I see him coming, I’ll duck out of the way.’ He narrowed his lids to appraise Paul. ‘You’re no sailor, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m a friend from Abel’s younger days. We grew up together. When he went off to sea, I stayed working as a bricklayer. It’s an honest trade and it keeps you out of trouble.’

  ‘Why are you after that wild bastard?’

  ‘He wrote to me,’ said Paul. ‘At least, he got someone else to scribble a note. Abel never learnt his letters properly.’

  ‘He never learnt to control that foul temper either.’

  ‘I’m in London for a few days visiting family. But I’d like to get in touch with Abel as well.’ He looked around. ‘Are you always in here?’

  ‘I’m here or somewhere like it. Some taverns are like bear pits. I avoid those. I prefer a little peace while I enjoy a drink. As you can see,’ he went on, indicating his wooden leg. ‘My sailing days are over. I like to sit and talk about old times with beached vessels like me.’

  ‘You must pick up a lot of gossip, then.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my ears.’

  ‘Could you ask around if anyone’s seen Abel Fearon?’

  ‘I’d need talking into it,’ said the man, removing the pipe to spit on the floor.

  ‘You’d get money to buy yourself some baccy,’ said Paul, ‘and there’d be enough to keep yourself in ale for a while as well. All I need to know is where I might find Abel.’

  ‘If he’s that keen to see you, why doesn’t he come looking for you?’

  ‘That’s what I want to ask him.’

  ‘He doesn’t sound much like a friend to me.’

  ‘I agree but … well, the truth is I owe him a favour. Could you find out if anyone’s seen him in the area?’

  The man was reluctant. ‘Maybe I could.’

  ‘Take this,’ said Paul, pressing some coins into his hand. ‘There’ll be more to come. I’ll call in here tomorrow to see if you’ve had any luck. But be warned, old man,’ he added, fixing him with a stare. ‘I’ll not be tricked. I paid for the truth. If you try to palm me off with anything else, I’ll know it straight away.’

  ‘You’ll get what you asked.’

  ‘Find him – it means a lot to me.’

  ‘I won’t make any promises.’ He glanced at the money. ‘Bricklaying must be a good trade if you can spare this much.’ He slipped the coins into his pocket. ‘Who shall I say is after him?’

  ‘Don’t give him my name. I’d like to surprise him.’

  Micah Yeomans was bubbling with optimism. It was not often that he called on the chief magistrate with such feeling of elation. He had good news to report for once and was entitled to expect congratulations. But he was not merely thinking of Eldon Kirkwood. The person he really wanted to impress was Diane Mandrake and the one way that he could do that was to catch the man who’d killed her friend. If he did so, he hoped, he might overcome her patent dislike of him. The news that she was a widow had pleased him. It also explained her air of independence. In solving a murder, Yeomans felt that he would be able to win her friendship and, in time, even to begin a sly courtship. It could not be rushed. Patience was needed.

  Kirkwood was about to leave his office when his visitor arrived.

  ‘I hope that you’ve brought glad tidings, Yeomans,’ he said.

  ‘I believe that I have, sir.’

  ‘You’ve made an arrest?’

  ‘No,’ said the Runner, ‘but we may be soon in a position to do so.’

  ‘Then you’ve shown commendable speed.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Enlighten me, I pray.’

  Yeomans was far too excited to be succinct. Making no mention of the work done by Hale and Ruddock, he gave a long-winded account of how he’d cornered one of his informers, heard the story about a doorman at a Covent Garden brothel and deduced that the killer was almost certainly one of the clients that night. All that they had to do, he said grandiloquently, was to bide their time until the villain and his ac
complice returned.

  ‘And is that all?’ asked Kirkwood, stony-faced.

  ‘We have, in effect, solved the murder, sir.’

  ‘You’ve done nothing of the kind, you imbecile.’

  ‘Venables is a man whose word can be trusted.’

  ‘It’s not him that worries me. It’s this other fellow. How much reliance can you place on the testimony of a doorman at a bawdy house? We both know the kind of individuals who do such work – they’re big and strong but blessed with few other qualities. They draw pleasure from listening to the sordid tales of the misbegotten whores who inhabit the place.’

  ‘Doll Fortune’s house is a class above any other, sir.’

  Kirkwood screwed up an eye. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Word travels. These men had money to spend and they wanted the best.’

  ‘If one of them was as rough and ready as you claim, I’m surprised that he was allowed through the door. As for this nonsense about committing a murder, I think it was an idle boast made by someone who wanted to shock the prostitute in whose lascivious arms he was lying at the time.’

  ‘The evidence is inescapable, sir,’ insisted Yeomans. ‘Killers do behave strangely in the wake of their crimes. We’ve seen it happen before. They’re in the grip of some frenzy. They seek excitement through drink and loose women. Such monsters have no boundaries. They get carried away. That’s why the whore was terrified.’

  ‘Have you spoken to her?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Have you verified the doorman’s story?’

  ‘I was intending to speak to Doll herself when I leave here,’ claimed Yeomans, inventing the lie in the hope of convincing Kirkwood that he’d been thorough. ‘I’ve no doubt that she will confirm the details.’

  ‘You speak as if you know this disgusting abbess.’

  ‘Our paths have crossed before, sir.’

  ‘Are you telling me you’ve been inside this disorderly house?’

  ‘I had to threaten her – Doll, that is – with arrest on one occasion. I’ll do the same again if she refuses to help.’

  ‘Why didn’t you do that before you came here?’

  ‘I was anxious to get the evidence to you as soon as possible.’

  ‘But it’s not evidence,’ said Kirkwood, waspishly. ‘It’s mere hearsay, concocted by a fanciful whore who wanted to get the attention of the doorman. Enough of these unsubstantiated tales – give me facts, man, hard, cold, irrefutable facts that will stand up in court and secure a conviction.’

  ‘I sense that we have the killer within our grasp,’ argued Yeomans.

  ‘What you have is a cock-and-bull story. It may not have a single grain of truth inside it. Don’t bother me again until you have credible evidence.’

  The Runner crumpled inwardly. In calling on the chief magistrate, he’d hoped to set in motion a train of events that would end in the capture of the killer, earn him a handsome reward, gain the unstinting approbation of Kirkwood, bolster his reputation in the criminal fraternity and, most telling of all, melt Diane Mandrake’s icy disregard of him and bring her within his reach. None of that seemed likely now. As he left the room in despair, he felt that the woman on whom he’d set his heart was slipping irretrievably through his fingers.

  The first thing he heard when he reached the gallery was the familiar sound of gunfire. Huckvale was delighted to be back in the safety of his home and place of work. He was finally at ease. The feeling, however, did not last long. When he went to relieve Peter Skillen of his duties, he came upon an extraordinary sight. The person firing at the target with such accuracy was not a man, as he’d expected, but Diane Mandrake. Huckvale was open-mouthed as he was introduced to her. Realising that he’d been injured while acting as Paige’s bodyguard, she gushed with sympathy.

  ‘Oh, you poor, dear fellow,’ she said with maternal concern, ‘you shouldn’t be abroad in that state. By rights, you should be in bed with someone at hand to nurse you back to full health.’

  ‘I’m bound to agree, Jem,’ said Peter.

  ‘I wanted to come back,’ explained Huckvale. ‘I can’t offer instruction in fencing or boxing – still less in archery – but I can teach people how to fire a pistol properly. That will set you free.’

  ‘Thank you. I appreciate that.’

  ‘There’s nothing you can teach me about using a pistol,’ said Diane. ‘My father was a gunsmith and I grew up helping him to test the weapons he made. Mother always thought it too unladylike a pastime but I loved it. Well, now,’ she continued, ‘if you spurned the attentions of Peter’s servants, you won’t be without someone to take care of you. I’ll make it my task to act as your physician. Gully Ackford will have told you that I am to work alongside you all. Leo Paige was a very special friend of mine and I’ll commit every hour of the day to the search for his killer.’

  ‘Let’s leave him for now,’ said Peter, seeing that Huckvale was positively dazed by her attention. ‘Jem will soon have to deal with a client in here.’

  Before she could object, he guided her out of the shooting gallery, collecting a look of gratitude from Huckvale on the way. Diane Mandrake had made a deep impression on him and it had been a blistering experience. The thought that he’d rejected the gentle care of Meg Rooke only to be enfolded in the capacious bosom of an overpowering woman made Huckvale’s head throb violently. He saw trouble ahead for himself and for the investigation. While he would be under her thumb as an unwilling patient, the work of the others would be imperilled by someone with no experience of what was involved in the pursuit of dangerous criminals. On balance, he wished that he’d stayed in the comfort of a bed at Peter’s house. At least he hadn’t felt so threatened by female tenderness there. In returning to the gallery, he’d been too impulsive. A sense of loss welled up inside him. He missed Meg Rooke. She seemed a hundred miles away now.

  The aspect of his work that Chevy Ruddock least enjoyed was the necessity of lying to his wife. She was a good, kind, loving person and he hated having to deceive her. It was necessary, however, to conceal from her the hazards of his life on foot patrol. London had a large, volatile, highly active criminal community and he moved among it every day. His latest assignment was of a slightly different order. He had to keep watch that night outside a fashionable brothel and couldn’t bring himself to be honest with his wife about his unwanted duty. He therefore fell back on the kind of blatant lie that was second nature to people like Yeomans and Hale but which still had the power to disturb Ruddock. When he arrived at the appointed place in Covent Garden, he took his misgivings with him.

  His vigil got off to a bad start. Rain began to fall, obliging him to move into a doorway from which he could keep the house under surveillance. From the vulgar remarks he’d heard passing between Yeomans and Hale, he believed that it was the most sinful establishment in a city that had a vast number of places serving the perverted desires of lecherous men. Coaches and carriages came at regular intervals to deposit clients at the door, where they were met, with great deference, by a big, burly man who seemed to know most of them. Ruddock could only begin to imagine what was happening inside the house. Even being so close to the place was enough to make his cheeks burn.

  His attention was soon diverted by the sight of a shadowy figure, making his way along the street by dodging from doorway to doorway to keep out of the rain. Ruddock was alerted. The sailors who, reportedly, had visited the house on the previous night had done so on foot, whereas the majority of clients arrived there by private transport. Could this be the very man they were after? Was he returning for another night of bestial abandon? Ruddock had been warned simply to follow the man back to his lodging before calling on reinforcements but that was because he’d been with an accomplice before. He was now alone. If he could be arrested outside the house, it would not only spare one of its occupants a revolting ordeal, it would put more than a single feather in Ruddock’s cap. Thrilled by the prospect, he drew back in the doorway and got ready t
o pounce.

  The closer the man got, the more convinced was Ruddock that the killer was hurrying towards him. Since he had the advantage of surprise, he felt that he could overpower the man without difficulty. He could hear the footsteps getting closer and closer. Arms at the ready, he waited for the moment to strike. When the stranger finally ducked into the doorway occupied by Ruddock, he was grabbed by his shoulders and pushed hard against the pillar supporting the portico.

  ‘You’re under arrest!’ declared Ruddock, stoutly.

  ‘What, in the bowels of Christ, are you doing?’ roared Yeomans.

  He was released at once. The younger man gabbled his apologies.

  ‘I thought you were going to the house, sir.’

  ‘That’s where I am going.’

  Ruddock was shocked. ‘Do you mean that you’re a …?’ The word died on his tongue. ‘Have you no respect for your marriage vows, Mr Yeomans?’

  ‘I’m not here as a client, you fool!’ snarled the other. ‘I came in search of evidence. I need to speak to the doorman and converse with Doll Fortune.’

  ‘But she’s the lady who—’

  ‘I know full well who and what she is, Ruddock. Obey your orders, man. Keep your eyes peeled for the two people who came here last night. And whatever you do,’ he cautioned, ‘don’t try to arrest them – watch, wait and follow.’

  ‘Watch, wait and follow,’ echoed Ruddock.

  ‘I want no more heroics from you. It will ruin my plan.’

  Ruddock nodded respectfully. Without warning, Yeomans hurried across the road to the house under observation and spoke to the doorman. Moments later, he was ushered inside. Secure in his hiding place, Ruddock was left to wonder if Yeomans was really there to seek evidence or to sample the exotic fare on offer. His cheeks began to burn with more intensity.

  Peter and Paul Skillen, meanwhile, were poring over copies of the newspaper once more. Even on a second reading, they could produce a lot of smiles and chuckles. They were at Peter’s house and his brother was still dressed as the bricklayer he’d claimed to be. As she came into the room, Charlotte was startled.